Foolish Games
by luft
Summary: these foolish games we play, they end up tearing us all apart. Rated M for violence/language/to be safe.
1. Prologue

PROLOGUE

He closed his door shut and leaned against the cool steel frame of his car. The sirens blared as loud as they always had, flashing garish bright lights, pompously announcing the arrival of his colleagues. All around him, faceless people hurried importantly along, salvaging the ruins of another life, trying to find answers to vindicate the injustice that had fallen onto those no longer able to care. He placed his hands in his pockets and stared absentmindedly at the asphalt ground, at the black background and the shining -no, twinkling- tiny particles reflecting the dull yellow light of the street lamp above. Funny, he thought, how one can describe two very different sights in the exact same way. Words, language, the subterfuge of men. He took one last, long drag from his cigarette, and tossed it to the ground. He stared at the spent stub, sighed and picked it back up from the ground and dumped it back into his empty pack of Lucky Strikes. He'll find a bin to dispose of it later. He stared at the pack, reading the customary warning that comes with it, and pondered at the irony. When will they learn, that advertising the dangerous, the deadly, was just another effective way of goading the indignant to further challenge death. In any case, it did nothing to lessen his hold on the habit.

He placed the pack back in his pocket, and raked his hands through his hair. Another habit I cant seem to get rid of, he thought wryly. His mind wondered as his fingers closed around his pack and lighter in his pocket. He fiddled with the now-familiar feel of his lighter, the cold metal a comfort to his calloused hands. He couldn't remember the..the strangeness, the guilt, the apprehension and even slight excitement of his first drag. Sure, he could picture the scene clearly in his mind, but he couldn't, wouldn't remember the emotions that came with that memory.

He heard, or rather sensed, the familiar, heavy footsteps, headed his way. He did nothing to indicate that he noticed his partner's arrival, preferring to wait for him to call out to him, as per usual. Only then did he turn his head to meet his partner, nodding his greeting, accepting the Styrofoam cup filled with tepid, bad coffee, but coffee nonetheless. They both stood drinking in silence, taking in the scene that awaited them. Once finished, they tossed the empty cups into his car, and resolutely made their way again into another bout of sleepless nights, frustration and grief-stricken, justice-seeking members of the public. They flashed their badges, their passport to go through their looking glass, his partner used to joke, and once again shut the rest of the world out of theirs with a simple rise and fall of yellow-and-black tape.

He did not even need to switch on the light when he got back home, the better half of the morning already spent and gone. He hung his keys on their tiny hook, and placed his shoes neatly back on the rack. He hung his coat, tossed his jacket into the laundry basket, letting a small smile play on his lips, amused at how he still managed to retain his need for order and organization, at least when it came to his material possessions. He loosened his tie as he sat down and lighted a cigarette. Resting his stick on the ashtray, he went to the fridge and opened himself a bottle of beer. He took a long swig, and sat back down. Beer and cigarettes, his close companions, there to see him through the thick and thin of it all. He shook his head, refusing to ponder how he reached that stage. Years before, no one would have pinned him the type to spend his nights -no, days, actually- with a bottle in one hand, and a cancer-stick in the other. His brother, maybe, possibly, but him? Never, surely not! No, not Frank Hardy. He was too responsible, too concerned, too mature, too wholesome -too perfect.

As they say fellas, he thought mockingly, even the best fall down, and when they do, they fall down _hard_.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _I've never really believed the stories whereby the Hardys/Nancy are in their early twenties and already holding high positions in the CIA/FBI/PD etc. (Although a lot of them are really nice to read and well-written) It is fiction, and a suspension of disbelief is called for, but lately the realities of life in your twenties have been staring me in the face. So here's my take on an older, hopefully more realistic story. Hope you like it! _

* * *

CHAPTER 1

He woke up to loud, incessant ringing. Barely registering the time, he slammed the alarm clock shut and groggily got out of bed. He went through his morning rituals: shower, shave, brush his teeth, put on his standard attire of grey suit, white shirt, sombre tie, black socks and leather shoes. He went to the kitchen and made himself a cup of coffee and fetched the papers from his doorstep. He drank his coffee while reading the papers, and when finished, tossed the coffee mug into the sink, grabbed his briefcase and set off for the office. A routine he had been doing on his own for the last ten years.

Traffic in New York City is crazy at best, and damn near impossible in the mornings. And driving to lower Manhattan during rush hour was only for the unemployed. Still, Frank Hardy found himself wishing to be stuck in a traffic jam, with his cabby shouting out curses in English/Spanish/Arabic/Chinese or a mixture of all four, rather than being delivered a sermon to in the subway. He sighed inwardly, as the booming voice of the Subway Preacher rang throughout the otherwise silent compartment. It did not surprise him anymore, after ten years of living in this city, to find himself being confronted by yet another overzealous Christian shouting out the Lord's words for all to hear this fine morning. New Yorkers certainly know how to exercise and maximise their First Amendment Rights.

He tuned off the preacher with the same practiced nonchalance as the other passengers on the train. He thought back to last night's late call, and his upcoming meeting at One Police Plaza. He never liked these meetings, and he certainly was not looking forward to this one. He had barely enough sleep last night as it was, and knowing what the meeting was about, he knew it was going to be a long day.

Twelve years ago, he had joined the NYPD, with all the optimism and the naivete of a rookie. Now, at thirty-five, and having recently been promoted to the rank of detective second-grade, he wondered at times how he possessed the will to drag himself out of bed. He had to laugh at the kid he was back then. Oh, how he really believed he could save the world, that his adventures with his brother Joe and Nancy made him invincible, a hero. That all they needed were each other, and their mysteries, and that life would remain the same and dandy till they make their merry way to their graves.

He couldn't help but smile, as he though back to those days, a lifetime ago, when he spent summers traipsing round the globe with Joe and Nancy. It was definitely a wonderful time in his life, and he envied his younger self and the confidence, trust and feeling of self-importance that he had. But of course reality had come crashing down, and here he was, in the infamous New York City subway, getting off at City Hall and walking towards a dreaded meeting with a few other detectives and chiefs. And to think that he had joined the police force, and the homicide division, by choice.

He lit up a cigarette as soon as he was above ground. He had long learnt to silence the nagging, Joe-like voice in his head that kept telling him to quit smoking. Truth be told, he missed his little brother, and the bond they once shared. But Joe had chosen a completely different career path to his. Initially choosing to study criminology like his brother, he dropped out of college after the first year, and spent another year travelling the world. After which, he returned with a new-found attitude towards life, and resumed his studies, this time in sports science. He was now the proud proprietor of a successful chain of gyms in Bayport and the other suburban towns surrounding it. From their once-monthly phone conversations and less-frequent emails, however, he was confident that one thing has not changed: Joe Hardy was still ever the incessant flirt. In every of their conversation, he would mention the name of a woman, each one different than the last.

The red-brown rectangular building that was the Police Headquarters loomed into view, and he stood outside to finish his cigarette. Thinking of his brother always made him nostalgic for the past. Life was so much simpler back then, when the blinkers of youth still blinded them to the so-called realities of the world. Despite their fair share of danger, they still had their youthful optimism and faith in some form of cosmic order that would not allow them to fall. Now, after seeing colleague after colleague go down in the most banal of convenient store robberies, he wondered how they managed to escape the situations they found themselves in at that time. Lady Luck must have really favoured them as teenagers a lot.

He stubbed his cigarette and took out his I.D. tag from his jacket pocket. He scanned it at the security booth out front, and subjected himself to another round of security checks before being allowed in, and went straight for the elevators, seventh floor please. He tried to push the thought of Joe, of his past, and the question that had sporadically haunted him for the past ten years, of what had become of Nancy, out of his head. He had a meeting to attend to, and judging from his boss' tone of voice in the memo, it was going to require all of his mental faculties. He let out a breath he did not realise he was holding, straightened his tie, and walked out of the opened doors as the elevator pinged, indicating the seventh floor.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

After two and a half hours, the officers in the meeting were getting frustrated and restless enough to call for a half-hour break. Frank sighed and pushed his chair back with more aggression than he intended, and went down to the designated smoking area with his partner, Detective-Investigator second-grade Robert Del Punta. It was barely lunchtime, yet both men looked like they had been through a good part of the day and beyond.

Right from the start, the meeting had been tedious and just short of disastrous. It was, for all intents and purposes, to be just another review with the senior police staff, where the head of precincts would report to the head of borough and other higher echelons of law enforcement, that all was good and under control in their jurisdictions. The problem with Frank's and Robert's precinct, as well as some other precincts in the patrol borough of Manhattan North, was that all was not good, and definitely not under police control. Hence, the lengthy meeting and the involvement of other lesser parties like Robert and himself.

He offered a cigarette to Robert, who accepted it after a furtive glance around with equal measure guilt and thanks. Ten years older than Frank, Robert was about five inches shorter and fifty pounds heavier. He was in danger of barely passing his physical, and in an effort to keep the doctors at bay, his wife had imposed a strict no-smoking and no-fast food rule on him. The older man, whom Frank knew was devoted to his wife and an old softie when it came to her, usually toed the health guidelines set out for him. Today, however, it looked like he could use the nicotine. Frank could see the tense set of his shoulders and the occasional twitch on his jaw that only appeared after long hours at the office on a case. The two men proceeded to smoke in silence.

The past six months had seen a spate of rape and murders in Manhattan North that is uncharacteristic of the rather affluent and mostly well-to-do neighbourhood. On the first Friday of every month, they had been getting letters confessing to an impending rape and murder. The first time the perpetrator sent the letter, it was to the 34th precinct police department in Manhattan North. Typewritten on aged paper, the letter wrote in eloquent prose the systematic rape and disembowelment of a forty-year-old female, brunette psychiatrist by the name of Eva L. The police officers spent a week tracking down the aforementioned psychiatrist and the origins of the letter, and eventually dismissed the letter as another hoax, or the rantings of a deranged madman. They could not find any forensic evidence on the letter, and without any further leads to back up the allegations, there was not enough cause to keep the five psychiatrists/psychologists that they had found who corresponded to the descriptions under police surveillance. They were all given a briefing on personal safety, a police name card, and were told to keep vigilant and stay safe after a week.

On the last Sunday of the month, forty-year-old psychiatrist Dr. Eva Lancaster's naked body was found in her office by her hysterical secretary, a twenty-two year old college drop-out with a two-year-old daughter. She had been strangled, raped, and disemboweled. Her body was laid out on the floor of her office, her eyes closed, her hands clasped together on her chest, her legs together. Her intestines were on a pile on the right side of her body. Her clothes were folded neatly on the left, in line with where her intestines were placed. They were both in line with her elbow, and made a somewhat rudimentary cross. Her office where she was found in was situated in the 33rd Precinct of Manhattan North.

Her murder was picked up by every radio, internet, television and print media serving New York, and made the afternoon headlines. The detectives who had received the letter in the 34th precinct, Dets. Sam Adler and Howard McNeil, listened in horrified amazement to the afternoon news broadcast. They immediately rung up their colleagues in the 33rd precinct. On the first Friday of the next month, the detectives on the 32nd precinct received a typewritten letter on aged paper. On the last Sunday of that month, the detectives of the 3st precinct received a call on a dead body. From then on, every month for six months now, the police departments of Manhattan North had gone through this whole process, with the bastard claiming six victims to his name and the police nowhere near to catching him. With at least twelve detectives working the case, and six precinct chiefs involved, it had been an organisational mess. Questions of jurisdiction and authority were bound to arise, and the meeting today was to create a task-force and come up with an organised and systematic way of dealing with the investigation. Underlying it all, however, was the threat that if they did not take control of this situation, the FBI would very well step in, seeing as how the serial rapist and murderer was nowhere near being caught. The very thought made the hackles of the assembled bunch of New York's Finest rise. They all shared one commonality - they hated conceding to the FBI.

Frank looked up and noticed the two detectives from the 34th precinct joining him and Robert. They nodded their heads at each other, and the taller, older, blonder one offered his hand to Frank.

"Sam Adler, 34th precinct. That's my partner Howard McNeil," he jerked his head towards the younger, thirty-ish, dirty-blonde on his side. "Mind if we join you for a smoke?"

"Frank Hardy, 19th precinct. This my partner, Robert Del Punta. Join the club."

Frank watched as Robert shook hands with the two men. He knew Robert was sizing them up, getting a feel of their characters, and whether they were people he could trust. It used to surprise him when he was younger how members of law enforcement had such great animosity towards each other. It always frustrated him when the police refused to cooperate with them on a case. After all, they were all on the same side, the good side, so why not work together? It took him a while to be able to see the shades of grey.

"So you're the guys who got the latest body, huh?" Sam Adler had a low, rough, gravelly voice, from years of chain-smoking. He was however tall and rather fit, especially for a man who looked to be in his late-forties. He was also clearly the one in charge, and his partner seemed content to be hanging around behind him, like a shorter, younger, nervous-looking shadow. Frank added another bullet point to the mental list he created on reasons to quit smoking. He certainly did not want to sound like Adler in ten years' time. He doubted it would appeal him to the ladies, and judging from how long his apartment had remained empty, he needed all the help he can get in that department.

"Yeah, same day, same way he described it, that fucking son-of-a-bitch. Amanda Chen, twenty-two, waitress. Boyfriend found her. Don't think he'd ever recover from it, poor kid." And with that, Sam and Robert started talking about the case. Frank was more than content to let Robert be the face of their team. He was never the one for attention, even in his partnership with Joe. Even so, he and Robert had a great understanding, and treated each other as much as they could as equals. Robert was all in all a jovial, easy-going fella with a rambunctious appetite and laughter. He had not been doing much of either, however, since four months ago when the patrol borough of Manhattan North realised they had a serial in their hands. Ever since then, both their lives had been consumed by this..

"..so the news are starting to give him names. Catchy nicknames that sell more papers and instill more fear in New Yorkers' hearts. The Lady Killer, Postman Death, Disembowel-Man.." Frank couldn't help but snort at that one.

"But the one that gets me most is the Catch-Me-If-You-Can Killer. He's playing a fucking game with us and making us all look like fat fools by giving us his next move, and he's still not behind bars playing pussy to the other tough guys in lock-up. God-fucking-damnit!"

Robert smashed his solid fist against the wall, the dull thud echoing all their frustrations. Frank stubbed his cigarette and ran a hand through his hair, and walked in morose silence back to the elevator. It was going to be a long day alright.


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

The meeting broke up three hours later, and the officers adjourned for a late lunch. It was a few minutes before 2pm, and the afternoon lunch crowd was thinning. "Thank God for small miracles, at least we won't be fighting with the rest of these bankers for our food." Robert was muttering under his breath, already on edge from the meeting and the case. His increasing hunger was making him crankier than Frank had ever seen him to be. In some ways, he reminded him of an older, darker, stockier Joe.

Frank made a mental note to call Joe tonight. With the way his younger brother kept creeping into his mind this whole day so far, it had to be a sign.

"Hey fellas!" Frank and Robert turned around to see Sam Adler catching up to them, his shadow McNeil faithfully right behind. "Wanna join us for lunch? I know a pretty decent burger joint round nearby. We can talk things over during, what say you?"

Robert turned to look at his partner, and Frank gave him a non-committal shrug. In his youth, he would have jumped at the chance to trade information and have a partner to bounce ideas off. He was less willing, eager and trusting as his former self now, however. Then again, his partners-in-crime now tend not to be like the gorgeous, strawberry-blonde, blue-eyed, intelligent, slender girl of his youth. He found himself for the second time that day wistfully thinking of Nancy Drew.

He was only aware that he had not made a move when he heard Robert call out his name. He walked hurriedly towards the other three men, not bothering to apologise or excusing his daydreaming. He did not miss the glance that Robert gave him.

In their eight years of working together, Robert had known him to be reticent and fiercely private, an enigma of sorts when it came to life outside of work. Which was a rarity, since Frank's entire life seemed to be only about work. After two years of being partners, Robert's wife Elena had insisted on inviting Hardy over for dinner one Saturday evening, and from then on, Frank spent one Saturday a month at their place. Robert had been rather surprised to see him outside of work and in the company of a woman for the first time since he knew him. He was known at the precinct then (and now, still) as a serious, sardonic, rather jaded young man, patient but with a deadly temper when provoked. Here in the Del Punta's dining room, however, Frank Hardy was the perfect gentleman, polite to a fault, and he actually laughed and made a light-hearted joke or two. Robert noticed how much younger he looked when he laughed, dressed casually in dark jeans and a playful slogan t-shirt, and realised with a jolt that his partner was barely thirty. Yet most of the time he seemed to be carrying the weight of a veteran detective with too many years on the force. Life had a funny way of screwing up some people, that he knew.

Trying to understand the workings of his partner's head sometimes was like trying to bounce a wooden ball. But what surprised him was the look he saw flash across his young partner's face as he stood there lost in his thoughts. He remembered seeing that look only once before, on the third dinner he and Elena had with Frank. His wife, being the nosy, straight-foward lady that she was, had asked Frank Hardy point blank about his lack of a love life. She had plied him with question after question, and he had answered them as politely as he could. Robert could see his partner starting to clam up. Frank Hardy's love life was a topic so off-limits, even the rookies at the station knew it. He had to suppress a grin, thinking of his wife that night. She had determinedly plowed through the poor boy's brick walls, and got Frank to sport that wistful, dreamy, lovelorn look on his face as he whispered a single name. Nancy.

It seemed that young Frank Hardy did not enter the force as a rookie after all, having spent a significant part of his youth travelling the world with his brother Joe and this Nancy kicking criminal butts around the globe. But somewhere along the way, things started to fall apart in the partnership. Feelings got involved, and Frank's and Nancy's other partners were hurt. They eventually gave in to reality, and made a choice to turn their backs on their globe-trotting, crime-fighting ways, and in effect, to turn their backs on each other. So they chose normalcy and familiarity over the uncertainty of figuring out their feelings for each other. And from what Frank was willing to confess, that did not turn out too good on his side of the fence. His high-school sweetheart broke it off with him eventually because 'he was always thinking about _her'_, he lost contact with who could possibly be the love of his life, his brother left the crime-fighting world for good, and Frank graduated from stopping terrorists in Egypt to handcuffing teen thugs trying to rob sixty-year-old Chinese convenience store vendors. No wonder he was such a ray of sunshine.

Robert looked back at the younger man. Frank's love life had to wait, however. They had other, more important things to do. Robert felt slightly sorry for him. That would always be the case though. Everything else in their lives would have to wait, as long as there were criminals to be caught. He made a mental note to get some flowers for his wife. Thank the Lord that they did not have kids - that was one less something to push aside. He was reluctant to bring his partner out of his reverie, but they had a deranged psychopath to catch.


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The burger joint was as dodgy as they come. Small, somewhat dark and smokey, the tantalising smell of frying onions and fat lingered in the recycled air. The surly, stocky Dominican behind the grill took their orders with neither a word nor a single glance at them. The four men then seated themselves at the only other table in the furthest corner of the room, taking off their coats and jackets. Despite the late autumn chill, it was absolutely stuffy and warm in that place. Frank wondered how he was ever to rid himself and his clothes of the smell of burgers before going back to the station.

They wasted no time in formalities, having already been introduced to each other earlier, and spending a good portion of the day with each other. It had been a hell of a meeting, with the chiefs of police demanding to know what action was being taken, and why it was taking them so long to catch the son of a bitch. The case had gotten such high notice that the commanding officer of the Special Victims' Unit had been called personally by the Commissioner and given by the end of the month to put the bastard behind bars, before the FBI were brought in. That left them then with less than three weeks to come up with forensic evidence that could lead to a viable suspect, and a conviction.

So far, they had squat.

They did, however, settle the issues concerning jurisdiction and cooperation, and came up with a task force in dealing with the matter. The Special Victims' Unit would be cooperating with the Manhattan North borough to solve the case, with the commanding officers of Manhattan North and the SVU being the joint supervisors of the task force. They would be the face of the team, the ones who would get the attention of the media and public recognition, whichever way the case goes. The grunt work would be conducted by the plebeian detectives such as Frank and his present company, for whom a case like this was just another day on the job. No fancy medals, no media interviews, no recognition whatsoever. He found himself exceedingly comfortable with that thought. He was not a career policeman, and did not have any political ambitions. All he wanted was to solve this damn case already, and from what he gathered from today's meeting, so did the other three men there with him.

They had all been informed that from today onwards, there will be no withholding information regarding this case, no wrangling over territorial issues, and under no absolute terms were the precincts to be working on their own. It was a joint cooperation between all the precincts, and the more information was shared, the more they would learn, and the sooner they would find their killer. Each precinct would have a detective in charge, who would report directly to the borough commanding officer, who in turn would report to the SVU in-charge. Their bosses were already feeling the heat and had to now rope in the bottom-feeders to help cover their ass up for them as well. All vacations were cancelled, all off days were revoked, and they were all put on-call round-the-clock until this case was over. Frank Hardy really hated politics.

"So," Robert looked at Sam square in the eye, once they were all settled. "How did this all start?"

Sam Adler began telling them about the first letter they received from their killer. It was the first Friday of April, and he had just arrived in the office. His partner McNeil was running late, as his little baby girl was running a fever. Poor thing was just starting to teeth, and it had been a pretty rough time for McNeil and his wife. "We've been married for only two years before Molly gave birth to our baby. She's almost a year old now, starting to walk already. Here's a photo, ain't she precious?" It was the first time Frank had heard McNeil speak, and he was surprised by the soft, rather high-pitched tone of his voice, and the subtle southern accent. But there was no mistaking the disbelieving pride of a new father in his entire demeanour as he interrupted his partner to talk about his little girl. Frank felt a twinge of envy. McNeil was barely older than he was, and already a dad. He had a loving, beautiful family judging from the photos, whereas Frank had..nothing.

Adler cleared his throat and gave McNeil a pointed, though rather amused, look, before asking him if he would continue with the recollection. McNeil blushed and put his photos away, though the beaming pride for his daughter was still evident on his face. He looked shyly at the other two men and his partner, before launching into his account of the events of that morning. Frank gave Robert an amused look. The bond between these two partners were not dissimilar to their own.

On that particular Friday in April, McNeil had arrived half an hour later than usual. As he was walking towards his office he shared with Adler, he had passed by the secretary's desk. He greeted the middle-aged woman as he always did, and she handed him his and Adler's correspondences for the day, a task she would usually do by herself. However, since McNeil was passing by, would he be so kind as to give this letter to Adler as well? She always knew he was a gentleman. McNeil sorted through his mail, nothing unusual there. Just a few memos from the criminalistics department regarding evidences pertaining to the two open cases he had. He stopped and frowned slightly at the thick, brown envelope addressed to Adler. For all he knew, Adler never received personal mail through the department. He asked the secretary if she knew who it was from. She shrugged, no she had no idea, it had arrived by post, and she had received it along with the rest of the precinct's mail this morning.

McNeil thought it odd, and went to his office to hand Adler his letter. He remembered Adler grunting his thanks, before proceeding to open the letter. McNeil had hung up his coat and jacket, started his computer and was about to go through his e-mails when he heard Adler cuss under his breath.

"Sweet fuckin' Christ, what have we got here?"

McNeil remembered looking up from his computer to see Adler standing up, holding two pieces of thick, yellowed paper with typewritten words on it. His partner looked ashen and bewildered, and was staring at the letters in disgust and horror.

"Now I've been a beat cop for eight years, and just got promoted to detective less than two years ago. And never in my career had I ever read anything like it." McNeil's seemingly permanent look of nervousness and his soft voice had taken on a hard, stony edge as he recalled the contents of the letter.

It was typewritten, and that was already strange enough. The paper was yellowed and aged, and the whole thing gave off a rather old-worldly, unrealistic feel. The letter was dated for the last Sunday of that month, typed neatly on the top right-hand corner of the page. It was addressed to Detective Sam Adler, Homicide, 34th Precinct of Manhattan North, New York City, New York. McNeil felt like he was thrown for a loop by the incongruity of the dated look of the letter, and the address and contents that seem to take place in the future.

The letter proceeded to tell, in prose, about the rape and murder of Eva L. It was sickeningly elegant and well-written, the tone, helped by the antique look of the letter, was somewhat old-fashioned. "No one nowadays would ever write like that anymore," McNeil had said. The writer seemed to believe he was playing a romantic, sensual game with his victims, for the whole thing read, in Sam Adler's words, like part of a sick, twisted romantic novel for psychos.

McNeil, having gotten over the initial shock of reading what was written by peering over his partner's shoulder, had grabbed a plastic Ziploc bag from his drawer and placed the letter into the bag, careful to handle the letter with tissue paper instead of his bare fingertips. Even so, the only fingerprints they managed to recover from the envelope and letter belonged to McNeil, Adler, their precinct's secretary as well as the postal worker who had delivered the mail. All had been ruled out as suspects, seeing how the postal officer was a middle-aged female African-American grandmother of five who never owned a typewriter in her life.

McNeil paused, and Adler took over the narrative. He recalled it being a most frustrating few days after receiving the letter. They had both agreed to pursue the case even after receiving no fingerprints or viable DNA from the letter. Their initial check for the Eva L mentioned in the letter had led them to 5 possible victims, between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five. However, none of them had reported feeling as though their lives were in any danger, or gone through any strange occurrences lately. They all felt safe, no they don't believe they were stalked, and no thank you, they did not want a policeman trailing them around the entire time.

After three days of receiving the letter, having gotten their forensic results and tracking down the Eva Ls, Adler and McNeil presented their case to their chief anyway, hoping to have permission to follow up and continue investigating. After all, it was still about three weeks away from the date stated on the letter. Despite their lack of evidence, both men did not once believe this to be a hoax. The cold feeling that took over in their guts after reading the letter was confirmation enough that this was not just going to remain a fiction.

They argued for two hours with their chief, and tried to persuade him to let them investigate other angles from the letters. Widen the search for the women at risk, place them under surveillance at nights, at least until after the date on that letter. Check out the origin of the letter, where it was posted from, what type of paper or typewriter was used, and where to find them. Let them do something to at least find out who had sent the letter, so they could assess if the threat was real or not.

Their chief was unimpressed, and told them to let it go. There were other pressing matters to deal with.

After a week of carrying on their own investigation behind the chief's back, they were summoned to another meeting, and told to drop it before he decided to drop them off the force. They reluctantly pushed aside all work on the letter, and could only wait with growing dread for D-Day.

On the day in question, they were both off-duty. McNeil remembered coming home after church with his wife and daughter. Molly was preparing lunch in the kitchen, and he was watching over his little girl in the living room, barely aware of the TV when the name Dr. Eva Lancaster on the news caught his ear. He remembered watching the news in growing mortification, and calling up Adler immediately.

Adler, in turn, was driving up to visit his parents in New Jersey, when he got the call from McNeil. He immediately switched on the radio and listened to the news. He turned his car quickly around, and agreed to meet up with McNeil in the office asap.

Their office was in chaos, as most had heard about the letter addressed to Adler already. The chief was wearing a look of consternation and sheepishness when he saw the two detectives come in. Adler ignored him, and went straight to his desk to speak to the detectives in charge of the murder over in the 33rd precinct. After half an hour, he put the phone down and massaged his temples slowly. He could feel the beginning of a headache forming, one that had not gone away for the last six months.

The detectives of the 33rd precinct had given him a rundown of what had happened. Dr. Lancaster's secretary had gone into work slightly later than her usual 10 am opening time, as her regular sitter had cancelled on the last minute. Yes, it was a Sunday, but since most of Dr. Lancaster's clients were working professionals with busy weekdays, she opened up her offices on the weekends. She was a hundred-per-hour psychiatrist, strictly by-appointment only. No, only the victim and her secretary had the security code to the office. And yes, the secretary had an alibi, she was with her sister, niece and daughter the entire night before for a girl's night in. The office was located in a modern building that housed other offices and similar businesses. Dr. Lancaster shared her floor with a cosmetic dentist. The other tenants included other medical practitioners, an IT consultancy firm, and several other small, private businesses. Security in the building was standard, there were cameras facing the entrances and exits, and tenants were all given an access key card to the main doors and elevators. Entering and exiting the building both required the tenants to swipe their key cards. Visitors would have to be buzzed in by security up front, and upon confirmation of their appointments, were allowed access into the lifts. From then on, they had unrestricted access to the levels, but not the offices. Unless they had the access code or key card, they would have to be buzzed in by the employees in the respective offices. The secretary only had the access code to Dr. Lancaster's office, but not a key card to the building. She had only started work a month ago, and her key card was in the process of being issued. The security guard remembered buzzing her in that morning, and surveillance tapes would later confirm this.

Dr. Lancaster, a forty-year-old brunette, was found by her secretary at about 10.35am, and pronounced dead on arrival at 10.52am by paramedics. She was first strangled with the perpetrator's bare hands, before being raped repeatedly. There were both vaginal and anal penetration, spermicide but no semen was found in both tracts. Her abdomen was slit with a sharp instrument, and her intestines cut out of her body, placed in a pile on her right side. The carpet was soaked with her blood, and a few of the younger cops had ran outside to heave out their breakfast. The estimated time of death was two to six hours ago. The coroner could not give a smaller margin, due to the air-conditioning in her office being turned on full-blast. They came up with the time line when her secretary informed the police that her employer had called her the night before, shortly before 4am, asking for the location of some patient files. She had stayed over in her office that night, wanting to finish up some paperwork. That was the last anyone heard from her, it seemed. The victim lived alone, and was the only child of deceased parents. Her closest living relative was a cousin in Seattle. She was not seeing anyone, and had hardly any time for friends or any form of social life. The consummate professional married to her work.

The detectives could find neither hide nor hair from the perpetrator, he was careful not to leave any DNA evidence behind. He had wiped the surfaces of the victim's office clean of fingerprints, and he had used a condom when performing the rape, hence the presence of spermicide. He had most likely worn gloves, covered all his skin up with clothing, and maybe even a mask or shaved his head to prevent him from shedding hairs. He had vacuumed the room, leaving only the bloody area around the body untouched. Autopsy confirmed the rape happened post-mortem, and repeatedly.

A week after the murder, the tech guys at the precinct found that the surveillance tapes had been tampered with. From 3.45am to 4.45am, the live video feed of the corridors on Dr. Lancaster's office to the security room in the building had been changed, to show a cycle of half-hour video feed from the night before. Even stranger was that the access key card for Dr. Lancaster was used to get into the building twice - once at 3am, and again at 3.44am, without the key card being used to exit the building.

A few days after the murder, it was leaked out that the police had received a letter warning them of the impending murder. The media fallout was brutal. The chief of the 34th precinct was given a humiliating dressing-down by the borough's commanding officer. Adler and McNeil were put in charge of the investigation, along with the lead detective on the murder from 33rd precinct.

Less than two weeks later, on the first Friday of May, a detective from the 32nd precinct found a letter addressed to himself sitting on his desk. In it, typewritten on yellowed, aged paper, was an account of the rape and murder of a blonde, thirty-three-year-old sales assistant by the name of Monica G.


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Sometime during their discussion, their burgers had arrived. Frank remembered finishing his burger and the dull satisfaction of satiating his hunger. But for the life of him, he could not remember what the burger tasted like. He could have been chewing grilled cardboard and not known the difference. So absorbed was he in hearing the details of the first murder, details that he and Robert had not been informed of. No wonder they were getting nowhere in the case, when they could not even see the bigger picture. He threw a sideways glance at Robert. From the look of things, his partner was thinking the same way.

Once the two detectives had finished their story, they continued eating for a while, chewing in contemplative silence, before Adler asked them to spill on their case. Robert made no sign of replying, hungrily devouring his long-awaited lunch. Frank rolled his eyes at him, and recounted their previous night.

He had gotten a call from Robert, who was on duty, at 11pm last night. Frank was just about to go to bed and read a book, having gotten off the phone with his mom a few minutes before. She was doing much better lately, having been diagnosed with breast cancer a year ago. She was lucky to have detected it in its early stages, and has been living a cancer-free life for the past one and a half months. He had called to check up on her, even though Laura Hardy was one of the few women he knew who hated being fussed over. She and Nancy were pretty much alike in the sense that they were both strong, independent women in their own right. It was one of the things he loved and admired about both women.

Robert had not been informed that the murder was part of the series of murders that had been terrorising Manhattan, so naturally, neither was Frank. He had went in, thinking nothing much of it. A rape and murder in their precinct was rare, but not unheard of. The scene that greeted him, however, left even him, jaded and desensitised as he was, sick to the stomach. He remembered Robert looking green and grim. A young beat cop had excused himself and ran outside for fresh air. Frank had to turn his eyes away from the body and compose himself, before he could start taking in the scene.

Their victim was the youngest of the six, barely twenty-two. She was petite, about five foot three, with short, straight black hair. Her hands were clasped together on her chest, and her small breasts and narrow hips, and short stature, made her look like a young teenager. With her eyes and mouth closed, her pale, bloodless face looked almost peaceful. Frank felt sickened by the whole thing.

She lived with her boyfriend on a third-floor apartment, and they were both students at the NYU. He was 24, and pursuing his Masters in Art History. She had just graduated, and was waiting for her application for a Master's programme in the same field to be approved. In the meantime, she was waitressing at a cafe two blocks away. Her boyfriend had been out since 6pm for his fortnightly dinner and drinks with his college friends, and came home to this. Frank assumed him to be the young man passed out in the hallway, being attended to by paramedics.

The murders had been gaining steady media attention, and by now, almost everyone in law enforcement were familiar with the basic M.O to know that what they were dealing with here was the work of the same, elusive bastard. Robert made a quick call to the 20th precinct that confirmed the existence of a letter sent three weeks ago. Somehow, that information failed to reach the guys in the 19th precinct. "Some great communication going on here, huh," Robert had grunted in disgust.

After four hours of combing through the tiny apartment, the crime scene investigators had found hardly anything, as expected. The killer had, as he always did, vacuumed the carpets, wiped the surfaces of fingerprints, used gloves and a condom. There was not a trace of skin samples under the victim's nails, or fluid DNA on any part of her body. The coroner put time of death at around 7pm, shortly after the boyfriend left for his guys' night out. The young man broke into inconsolable hysteria when he found out. Frank turned away from the display of raw guilt and grief. It was getting harder lately to keep himself cool and detached from the emotions involved in a case as difficult as this. He wondered what it was that was making his carefully hardened shell crack just that little bit.

"So let me get this straight. In all cases, the victims died shortly after they were left alone. The only way that the killer could know that is if he was stalking them." McNeil chanced to voice out his opinion, bringing Frank's narrative to an abrupt end.

That much had already been established by everybody working on the case. The killer had in all certainty stalked his chosen victims, from the detailed descriptions of their physical characteristics in his letter, to his knowledge of intimate details as to their profession, whereabouts and schedules. He must have already chosen his next victim long before the first one was dead, to be able to write the next letter so soon. They were not dealing with an ordinary, impulsive newbie. Their boy was meticulous, calculative, with attention to detail that any detective would kill to possess. He was intelligent enough to have a good knowledge of forensics, and to avoid capture by the police for this long. Yet, he seemed to be choosing his victims at random. For someone so particular, he seemed to be picking his victims randomly out of a bag. They were everywhere on the charts, in terms of age, race, profession, class and physical characteristics. Frank had no idea what tied these women together, and hence, how they met their killer or vice versa. All they had in common now was that they were all dead and gutted by the same madman.

The detectives finally left the diner after exhausting every possible angle they could think of. They exchanged name cards and promised to keep in touch regarding new developments. Frank threw down some bills for his food, and left the diner with Robert. The sky was darkening now, the pale sunshine of the morning being swallowed up by fresh, dark clouds. "A perfect day for you eh, Hardy," Robert quipped, half in jest.

They had both barely reached the subway station before the first drops fell onto the city. Frank felt his phone vibrate, and read through the text message. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Robert do the same. His partner's lips raised into a smile. "Damn right we should take the day off. I haven't kissed my wife in 24 hours!" Frank felt that familiar stab of envy, dulled over the years. How he wished he had someone to spend his off days with, too. He bid Robert goodbye and told him to send his regards to Elena, as he walked towards his subway line.

He was lost in his own thoughts as he walked, wondering how he ended up in such a situation. His eighteen-year-old self would be utterly disappointed in him, had he known then how he would end up now. He had given up the possibility of a great romance then, because he thought it was the right thing to do. Frank Hardy was nothing if not responsible. Besides, being with Callie was all he had known for the whole of his high school years, and his young self thought that she was The One. They would get married, have three kids, a dog, two cars, a house with a lawn. She would bake cookies and look radiant as ever, while the kids would run up to greet him as he came home from yet another terrorist-foiling adventure in the Cayman Islands with Joe and Nancy by his side. He seemed then to have conveniently forgotten his own childhood, and how it was like to have a father who was absent on life-threatening assignments all the time. Of coming down to the kitchen in the middle of the night, hoping to sneak a chocolate cookie, and seeing his mother awake, pale and with dark-circles under her eyes, waiting for his father who was late, yet again. Of wondering, at four years old two days after Christmas, who that strange man was who wanted to give him a hug, because his father had been away for six months on a job. He had forgotten the unpleasant realities; the heady rush of hurtling head-on into danger, and surviving it, intoxicated him and coloured his world lenses a rosy hue. But Callie, after years of waiting, of worrying, and of competing with his lifestyle, his admiration for Nancy, his inability to see the world for what it is, had had enough. He came home one day, on the verge of graduating from the police academy, to find his apartment empty of her belongings, an envelope with his name on their bed. I'm not waiting for you anymore. Goodbye.

Three years later, he heard from Joe that she had tied the knot with a former college acquaintance. They were now somewhere in Connecticut, where he worked as a high school Math teacher, and she, at an insurance company. He could hardly remember what it was she studied in college, or where it was that she met her husband, despite both of them living together at that time.

He remembered the days after that night. He had coped with the heartache the best way he could - by throwing himself head-first into his work. His last few days in the academy were sterling, and he was one of the top cadets from his batch. He remembered the bittersweet of his graduation, of Joe and his mother and Aunt Getrude proudly watching from their seats, Joe teasing his beaming mother as she took photo after photo of the event. He had spent a blissful week back in Bayport before his posting to the NYPD, keeping his mother company, making sure the house did not feel to empty with the already-commonplace absence of his father.

It was some time after a particular rape/murder case that he started closing himself in, started with the chain-smoking and having a constant supply of beer in his fridge. It had been a year after he graduated from the academy, shortly before he became a detective. Dispatch had radioed in a possible 419, and he and his then-partner were the closest to the scene, a dark alleyway in the grittier part of the Bronx. He went in, gun drawn, only to be confronted by a beautiful face with unseeing blue eyes framed by a head of reddish-blonde hair, lying on the stone cold floor. For a split second, it was Nancy Drew lying down there, dead and half-naked on the grimy alley. He was unsure what happened next, but his partner must have cleared the scene and radioed in for the coroner, CSIs and homicide detectives, for the next thing he remembered, he was being tended to by paramedics, surrounded by bustling activity from other law enforcement officers. He had a blackout, they had told him. Was right catatonic for a few minutes, could only whisper No, Nancy, no, the entire time. No biggie, every rookie cop would get one sometime on the job. Sometimes, it just hits you without rhyme or reason. He pushed himself up and ran to where the girl still laid, the coroner about to move her to the morgue. He had to see her, had to make sure. He stared at the unfamiliar eyes of the beautiful, dead stranger staring up into the night sky. He was as oblivious to the pitying glances of his colleagues as she was.

His train whizzed to a stop at the platform, and he got in, still lost in his thoughts. He looked up and stared blankly out the windowpanes, until a flash of red from across the tracks caught his eye. He felt his heart jump. He shook his head and laughed bitterly. His imagination was on overdrive, his mind grasping at images associated with the memories he was recalling. He could only see the side profile of the woman on the other platform, her face hidden by her long red-blonde hair. It had been seventeen years since he had seen Nancy, a time as old as the both of them when they first met. Who knows what she looked like by now. He was not going to pathetically wish and imagine every red-headed woman to be Nancy, not again. He was past that. That time in his life was over, their time was over. He sighed and turned away from the window, observing the other passengers with a disinterested eye instead.


End file.
